


Hangover Cure

by zlot



Category: Bright Young Things
Genre: College, Community: yuletidefuckery, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlot/pseuds/zlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oxford: Long before the fatal breach, Simon and Miles take an afternoon's drive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hangover Cure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slowascent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowascent/gifts).



Simon hears the knock at the door--or rather, he feels it clawing against the steel-wool wall of his hangover. When he does not have to purchase the champagne himself, he does tend to overindulge.

He holds his breath, hoping his scout will toddle off to elsewhere, but the knock sounds again, insistent. "Come," he calls weakly into his pillow. The door opens. When no identifying sounds are made to help him on, he rolls over to see who it is.

"Oh, God," Simon says, rather mewlingly for one his age.

Miles Malpractice has arranged himself or draped himself--in any case, he doesn't appear to be standing under his own power--in the doorway of Simon's study. His eyes are obscured by a pair of motoring-goggles. They were probably borrowed from whoever lent Miles the rough brown motoring jacket he is also wearing, though its effect is dimmed somewhat by the pearl grey spats on his feet. Not to mention the purple silk scarf around his neck. The look on his face would be described by Miles as "enigmatic"; to Simon, it mainly looks smug.

Miles takes a deep breath as he draws himself up to his full (diminutive) height. Then, impressively: "Look at me."

"I am," Simon mutters. "Dear God in heaven, I wish I weren't."

Miles drops his dignified pose and barrels in, shoving his goggles up onto his forehead. "Balcairn, you absolute ninny. I realize you've probably been entertaining Miss Veronica Vomit for much of the early morning in your vulgar undergraduate way, but it is now past noon and furthermore, It Is Time."

"I fervently hope you're about to say it's Time for you to leave."

"It is!" Miles steps gingerly over Simon's small clothes and arrives at the disheveled bed, sitting down next to the limp body of the last of the Balcairns. "It is time for me to leave, and it is time for you to leave, for today is the day that I have secured Featherstonhaugh's motor for the entire afternoon, hip hip, let joy be unconfined, put your trousers on, _do_."

Miles looks at Simon expectantly, but answer makes he none. "Or don't," Miles says, moving to raise the coverlet and introduce himself to the warmth of Simon's sheets, but Simon sits up quickly.

"Where are we going?"

 

_____

 

They leave Oxford behind, her spires still dreaming as Simon wishes he was, and drive toward Woodstock, not with a strong intention of arriving there. Miles says he will stop the car whenever he sees a broken fence, a dilapidated barn, and a grouping of trees sufficiently picturesque for him to fling himself onto the ground in a rapture of bucolic wonder. Simon asks will there be a pub. Miles whacks him.

Once out of bed, Simon does feel better, revived somewhat by rushing air against his face. The first few bumps Miles hits do make him turn a little green, but the real fun is pretending he is about to regurgitate his breakfast all over the pearl grey spats.

Simon smiles as he looks at Miles, hands tight on the wheel; driving makes Miles nervous, though he compensates by going faster. The intensity of his face--furrowed brow and bitten underlip--is made only slightly ridiculous by the purple scarf now tied round his head and under his chin like a film starlet. "For my hair," he had explained, as if to a stupid child.

They finally arrive at a meadow that meets Malpractice's aesthetic standards and decamp. Simon is quite surprised to find that Miles's planning has gone so far to include a packed lunch, and even a blanket to eat it upon. Miles is normally rich in vision but poor in details.

They eat sandwiches, and though Simon's stomach lurches when Miles produces yet more champagne, the bubbles stay down and actually seem to help. "It doesn't do to mix one's drinks, dear one," Miles says authoritatively.

They lie on the blanket. Simon hazily thinks about making a sketch of the treeline before remembering he has no paper, or pencils. _Or talent, really_, he thinks glumly.

Miles chatters on about this and that, collegiate gossip, Margot's next big ball, the desirability of starting their own secret society with a very select membership and a uniform of capes and sabers. Simon rolls onto his back and closes his eyes, smiling faintly and letting Miles's nonsense wash over him in inoffensive waves.

Eventually the waves stop, and the absence of noise causes Simon to open his eyes. There is Miles, head haloed by the sun behind him, watching Simon, sad-eyed. This again. Bugger.

"Oh, Miles," Simon says. "I'm still sorry I couldn't let you."

"I know, I know," Miles says in his consciously man-of-the-world way. "Many men have taken a few steps down my road, but I can't expect them all to get--get right to the end."

He flops down on the blanket, eyes closed, and Simon watches him for a moment, faintly amazed, as always, the quixotic lengths Miles is going to, has always gone to, despite the disappointment Simon has largely turned out to be. Miles's eyes suddenly fly open. "But tell the truth," he says. "I look marvelous in this jacket."

"You do."

"I knew it." Miles settles back and closes his eyes again, for all the world looking like the cat that got the cream. _Oh, what the hell_, Simon thinks. _Thus much have I done before_. He leans down and kisses Miles, right on his self-satisfied smirk.

The surprised squeak is the best part; that makes the backsliding worthwhile. But hands sliding round his sun-warmed back, a slight quickening in breath, the unexpected sliding sensation of the dratted purple silk scarf--these are all close seconds.

He will be more resolute, another day.


End file.
